Just like that
by Rothelena
Summary: Released from prison, Patrick Jane wants to leave the CBI- but is there truly nothing keeping him? Somehow PWP, definitely M, but...sadder than my other oneshots. Different. I'm not sure about that one. Just try it if you're curious.


_No idea where this came from. I just woke up this morning, started to type, and have done hardly anything else since then. I didn't really think about that one, so it could be very bad. And- it's a little sad. Want to try it anyway? Okay, but don't forget to let me know what you think about it! Thank you!_

_Disclaimer: it's not mine. But I'm obsessed with it- forgive me._

**Just like that**

She had no idea what she had hoped.

Every scenario, every possible future she had played out in her mind seemed horribly naïve now. Teresa Lisbon didn't do naïve. But what had she done?

She'd brought him back. Had fought for him until every muscle in her body had felt cramped. As if investigative work was as physical as mud catching. That was how she felt now. Caked in mud.

Had he smiled once since he'd left the prison?

She couldn't remember, and the absence of that smile was like a gaping wound. And now that she'd lost it, she realized that this smile had brought a softness to her life that nothing else could. Since he'd stopped smiling, her days were hard. Like granite. Her skin scraping against gravel. Yeah. It was hard. No better way to say it.

She didn't know what he'd hoped, either. But since he'd been released, he fought against the emptiness that threatened to claim him, and she could see it.

He hurt. And when he had told her that he couldn't do this anymore- couldn't be a part of her team any longer, couldn't pretend nothing had changed-, she had only nodded, resignation like a hand curling around her throat, the fingers squeezing at her windpipe until she felt tears prick her eyes. Tears of death. She had known this could happen. And now she only had a month with him before he would be gone. Gone. She couldn't begin to comprehend this.

But suddenly she asked herself how she would be able to go on. And worse- sometimes, when it was dark and she mused about her life and the lack of substance in it, she asked herself if she wanted to go on. Maybe he was her dead end- everybody had one. What if Patrick Jane was hers?

She had promised herself she would enjoy working with him as long as it lasted. But this had proven impossible. He was as closed as a fist, not interested in games any longer. He played his tricks to solve the crimes mechanically, without feeling, and the haunted look in his eyes told her that he'd realized he possibly wouldn't be able to find peace. Ever.

He still wore his wedding band, fiddling with it constantly. Sometimes, when she watched him tossing and turning on his couch from the safety of her office, she felt an agonizing, all-encompassing fear that he was finally convinced he belonged with them- with his family. That he would leave, and she would get the news about his suicide some days later.

She swallowed.

A world without Patrick Jane was- no place where she wanted to be. And damn if she'd ever thought she would feel that way. But hey. She did.

The night was thick and quiet, and Lisbon lingered in her office though all the paperwork was done. She'd been hardly home since he was free, sitting here, watching him, reveling in the knowledge that he was close, that she just had to stretch out her hand to…she knew it was an illusion, but she needed it to keep her sane.

It would take a miracle to reach him. And Teresa Lisbon was no sorceress.

She straightened the pencils on her desk. Put her feet up on the wooden surface and leant back against the cool leather of her chair. The tears fell without her doing anything, just rivulets of warm liquid running over her skin, and it felt almost good to know that she could still do this. Cry. She folded her hands over her stomach and let the tears flow. Dreaming herself into a different reality.

"Lisbon," Jane said, entering her office without looking at her, eyes glued to a file in his hands "I thought about Miller and noticed a irregularity here, we might be able to…"

He looked up and stopped dead in his tracks. She saw the mask crack for a second, but it was too short to be sure. Then everything was back in place again. His gaze unmoving, only mildly curious.

She watched him. Didn't try to conceal that she'd been crying. Just let her eyes wander. He was a secret treat she needed. Her own little obsession.

His hair, always slightly disheveled, gleaming in the sun even if the rest of his face was submerged in darkness. His beautiful lips. Smart, watchful eyes which had sparkled once. Would that sparkle come back when he'd be gone? Or would he just end his life without flinching?

She swallowed again.

He came closer, spine erect, as if he wore a suit of armor he mustn't shed. As if it would protect him from feeling too much.

She took her feet from the desk and put her hands in her lap. Unsure of what to do, the tension growing every second until she could hardly breathe.

She couldn't say anything. Silence was better.

He moved around her desk and sat down on the edge, so close to her she could feel his warmth. Sweet, deceiving warmth. His eyes were cold as ice, although she could see something flickering in their depths, something so alluring she would walk any distance to find it, even if she knew it to be futile. Like searching the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

He extended his hands and touched her cheek, sliding his fingertips through the wetness there. He cocked his head, features full of concentration as if he painted a picture on her skin. He tried to wipe away the tears but obviously found there were far too many of them.

He brushed her lips with his thumb. She felt bare of any thought, there was nothing happening in her mind. So she opened her mouth and sucked the calloused tip of his finger inside.

That was when she saw the mask melt away on his face.

Her tongue played on his skin, suckling softly to get more of his taste, the sensations crashing down on her like a concrete wall. If this was all she was supposed to have, she would damn well take it. She saw moisture glistening in his eyes. His lips trembled.

He extracted his thumb and slipped index and middle finger between her lips. She sucked on them, granting them the same tender attention she had given before, breathing in to summon his scent, needing it to accompany his taste.

He pulled his hand back when she was crying so hard the tears were dripping onto her clothes. Without making a single sound.

Losing contact with him felt like dying. She noticed the emotions almost from a distance, though they almost took her breath away. His fingers, moist from her tongue's caress danced on her lips for a moment before he pulled them away.

"I'll be in the attic," he murmured "you should go home, Lisbon. Try to get some sleep. Believe me- I'm not worth it."

And he got up and left her office without looking back.

Teresa Lisbon felt heavy as if she'd swallowed tons of lead. It took a while until she could stand. She went to her couch (the couch he'd bought her) and lay down on it, shivering with a mixture of cold and so many hurt feelings she simply couldn't sort through them. She would just close her eyes and be gone for a while, blocking everything that was painful inside her. She hoped her dreams would be soft and nice, for she needed them that way right now.

Needed them desperately.

xxMentalistxx

Jane sat on the chair in front of her desk and watched his superior sleep.

She had lost weight, hadn't she? She had no single ounce to spare. When was the last time he'd brought her donuts? He had to start again. As soon as possible. Maybe he would buy a heart-shaped one, just to make her feel good, make her smile. He wasn't terribly successful with that at the moment. Maybe because he couldn't remember how to smile himself. It was lost, his smile.

He hadn't felt different in prison. But the moment he'd been released, he'd realized he was still the same person.

Patrick Jane. Loner. Damaged goods. No home whatsoever. No one who loved him.

He'd cried for his family every night, as if he now, years after they had been taken from him, finally had to acknowledge that they were gone. That he could do nothing to make the pain better. Nothing to simply be someone else.

He hadn't been very touchy-feely since Red John had killed his dreams. But now he simply abhorred touch. The thought to kiss…he shuddered. He'd realized he would like to never touch another human being again. He wanted to be a hermit. That was the moment he had understood that he simply had to leave his old life. There was nothing left for him to do, nothing whatsoever.

She looked so small and fragile. Curled into a ball, knees drawn to her chest. Her hand covered her mouth. Her tears had seeped into the upholstery. Leaving a sizeable wet spot beneath her cheek. She looked like a sad little girl waiting to be consoled. Crying out for love.

He touched her shoulder and shook softly. She startled awake, staring at him with her huge, stark green eyes.

"Hey, Teresa," he whispered, trying not to disturb the comforting quiet too much "I'm taking you with me to the attic, okay? Don't be scared."

He bowed down and picked her up, one arm behind her back, the other under her knees.

It was alarming how light she was. Her weight was hardly registering on his arms, his stride was unchanged when he walked to the lift, taking his time.

Teresa watched him. His face was so calm. What was he thinking? She couldn't say.

But she wrapped her arms around his neck and pushed her face against his throat, feeling his rapidly beating pulse against her skin.

He lowered his head and nuzzled her hair. She was so warm. His fingers dug into her skin, only softly, only to make sure she was real.

He stepped into the lift and leant back against the wall, pressing her a little bit tighter against his body.

He opened the door to his hide-out in the attic with his foot.

It was so silent here, Teresa thought, her face still buried against his warm skin, more silent than in the rest of the building. Hardly anybody ever came here. It was Patrick Jane's kingdom.

He put her down on his makeshift bed, taking a blanket to cover her before he moved to take off her shoes. He took his time, moving slowly. He pulled off her socks when he had finished, and it was so touching that she almost started to cry again.

Jane let his fingers slide over her naked feet. Small feet, and so soft. Slightly cold, though, so he rubbed them gently between his hands to get them warm again. His face was solemn, full of concentration.

He tucked the blanket safely behind her back before he got up and opened his vest, folding it neatly on one of his two chairs. His shirt followed. Then his pants. He moved without the slightest hint of insecurity, and Teresa didn't dare to stir. She didn't understand anything, for all she knew she could very well be dreaming. But she didn't care right now. She accepted everything that happened, just like that. She was a watcher. Content where she was put.

Jane thought for a moment, then turned back to the bed, pushing the blanket back. He didn't ask for her consent when he opened her pants and pushed them down her legs. But he frowned when he noticed that they weren't as tight-fitting as they'd usually been. So she had lost weight.

He got up and folded her pants, putting them down on his own.

He went back to her and pushed his hand beneath her shirt, tracing her stomach with his fingers. It felt hollow, her hip bones protruding sharply. He opened his mouth to reprimand her, but stopped himself. It wouldn't change anything. From now on, he would do only things that could. Change anything. His fingers wandered higher, frown still firmly in place on his beautiful face. Her bra had a front clasp, and he opened it, almost managing without brushing her skin. She felt her breath hitching in her throat, though his movements were almost factual. There was nothing erotic to the way he touched her.

She almost smiled when he managed to dispose of the bra without taking off her shirt. He pulled the straps out of the short sleeves and tugged the garment free on her backside.

He touched the fabric softly, running his fingers over the silk, sensing the warmth from her body that still clung to the fibers. He folded the bra and put it on his chair.

He then slipped under the blanket beside her, gathering her into his arms, covering them both to contain their body warmth in the slight chill of the night. Everything became silent.

Teresa could hear nothing but his firm, strong heartbeat beneath her ear. His breath was threading through her hair, reaching as deep as her scalp, almost rousing goose bumps there. She snuggled closer. Felt his hand slide beneath the hem of her shirt, his fingers drawing lazy circles on her bare back.

Was it necessary to say something? Didn't seem that way. So she stayed silent.

He put his free hand beneath her chin and tipped her face up, made her look at him. His eyes were dark and calm when he bowed down and brushed his lips against hers. A sweet whiff of touch. His skin there infinitely soft. His lips probed gently, needing to learn her texture, and his tongue traced her rosy flesh, licking over it until she opened her mouth and granted him access. His tongue touched hers, sending an electric shock through both their bodies, and his hand at her back pressed her closer. He savored the contact, taking his time, the movements slow and sensual. And he hardly made a sound. Only soft smacking noises when his kisses exploded on her skin. Tiny detonations of pleasure.

She pushed her hand into his hair, leaving a prickling path on his skin. He let her touch him. Inched closer, though that was hardly possible.

She felt his erection grow against her stomach, the pressure on her skin considerable. Teresa thought for a seconds that the memories of this might be too much to carry for the rest of her life, but she couldn't stop, and the thought went away just like this, flying into the night only to leave a humming bliss inside the pit of her stomach.

He kissed her some more. And she lost all sense of time and place.

His fingers wandered down over her throat, dancing on her collarbones, meeting the neck of her shirt when they tried to go on.

Jane broke the kiss, making her whimper with disappointment, and pulled his arm from under her body. Teresa wanted him back, couldn't breathe without the contact. He didn't look at her while he took off her shirt, getting up to fold it and put it down on his chair. He was lost in the task, smoothing over the fabric with a flat hand, cocking his head slightly in reverie.

Teresa stared at his naked back, saw the muscles rippling beneath his golden skin whenever he moved, her body screamed for him, the spots he'd warmed slowly getting cold.

Patrick pushed his hands beneath the waistband of his tight boxers and shoved them down, stepping out of them, folding them on top of her shirt.

The sounds of the night were drowned in the hot rush of blood in Teresa's veins, surging through her body, now shivering from the cold. Damn, she was cold.

He turned and came closer, his body heat registering on her radar, slowly weaving through the chill surrounding her. He was fully erect now, his engorged length just massive. His face was so calm.

He knelt down in front of the bed and pulled her panties off, his hands hot, soft, infinitely gentle. He frowned when he let his fingers trace her hip bones. She definitely needed some heart-shaped donuts there. He leant down and pressed a short kiss on the sharp edge before he got up and folded her panties slowly, putting them on top of his.

He lay down next to her, covering them with the blanket again, engulfing her in his arms.

She wanted to kiss him, but he pulled back, just watching her for a second. She was so beautiful his chest constricted with feeling. He had been empty for so long. He thought that maybe he should say something. But there didn't seem to be any need for words. He didn't want to talk. He lowered his head and claimed her mouth, pushing his tongue back where it belonged, producing soft, smooching sounds, for they felt so good and soothed his raw soul. His hands wandered down her back, cascading over her skin like a sensual waterfall, leaving her aflame with need. She wasn't cold anymore.

He lifted her leg and put it over his hip. He felt the smooth sensation of her moisture on his skin. He rubbed against it before he pulled back slightly and slid into her with a single, firm stroke, going deeper until he was buried inside her to the hilt. He felt her tense in his arms for a second, she sensed the shudders running through his body. Both were silent. In the distance, far away in another world in front of the windows, the sirens of an ambulance were blaring.

Patrick pulled her closer, pressing his hips against hers as hard as he could, melting into her. He pushed her leg higher, wrapping it around his waist. He inhaled slowly, savoring the contact between his shaft and her tight sheath, pressing his lips against hers, almost bruising them with the force of his kiss. But she pressed back, her tongue dancing with his. He didn't move. Just stayed deep inside her, filling her all the way to her womb. Kissing her like a starving man. Putting his hand down on the small of her back so she couldn't move an inch away from him.

He pushed her onto her back, rolling on top of her, sliding out of her just a tiny little bit, but he corrected it immediately, pushing deeper. Allowing no space between them. His weight on her felt wonderful, she bathed in the sensation of sweet breathlessness, panting into his mouth.

Patrick's hips started undulating, causing tiny tremors deep inside her, nerve endings igniting slowly while his urgency built, an irresistible need to move, his kisses got more and more frantic, his tongue mimicking what his body needed to do, thrusting into her sweet mouth, in and out, in and out, his hips rocking against her, her core quivering all around him, caressing his length in an unrelenting squeeze, he savored the want flaring between them, enveloping them like a cloak, becoming more than a physical matter, consuming every single ounce of them.

He couldn't bring himself to separate from her, so his hips did the thrusting on their own, pulling his manhood out of her body before pushing back inside, going deeper with every thrust, even when that didn't seem possible anymore. Patrick Jane could do it. He could do everything. Got closer with every sure movement, every time he surged into her. She was so silent, but her fingers were clutching his back, scratching his skin and he heaved into her, his muscles clenching to deepen the thrusts, his abdomen lifting from hers before his whole lower body pressed back down, pushing his shaft back inside her, home into the depths of her core, so deep, oh, so deep, he swallowed her frantic breath with his open mouth, kissing her harder, his arms wrapped around her shoulders, his chest glued to hers while his lower body went up, only to push down again, going deeper, molding them into one single being, souls mashing while she felt his cock rubbing over her walls, feelings so sharp and acute her tears started to flow. Her fingers dug into his flesh. His movements were relentless.

He picked up speed, the friction got more acute with every thrust now, he pounded into her, again, again, and she silently begged him not to stop now, to grant her this, she felt the tension coiling in her stomach, tensing, tensing, her womb tightening under his strokes, poising to clench, to bring her release, his lips trembled against hers, his breathing harsh now. His hands drove into her hair, their grip so tight, some of his weight supported on his elbows to gather force for his thrusts, and he kissed her, kissed her so hard while he took her body, over and over, claiming her with every firm movement of his hips.

It felt so good, she didn't want it to end, didn't want this to become a memory, a fleeting whiff or remembrance that would fade eventually. But her body didn't obey, and her massive, mind-blowing release triggered his, her convulsing walls milking the seed from him, his whole body went rigid with the force of his orgasm, and she felt every jet of delicious heat deep inside her while she came like mad. Her sheath constricted around him so powerfully she felt the shocks everywhere, colorful sparks exploding in her veins, her fingernails raking over his back so deep she was surely marking him. He spilled his essence into her, shivering with the vigor of his release, filling her with the balmy liquid, until his body could give no more. He wrenched his lips away, his breathing strained and labored, his skin bathed in sweat, and pressed his forehead to hers, panting into her face.

Her lips were swollen from his kisses, but she still wanted more.

He finally rolled to his side, pulling her with him, still lodged deeply inside her. He pulled her leg back over his hip and allowed their bodies to clash. They would sleep like this, connected, and she felt grateful beyond words.

"Will you leave?", she asked softly. She dreaded his answer, was so afraid her stomach clenched in pain, but if he would deliver the final blow, he should do it now. Get it over with.

"No," he murmured, his voice calm and composed "I can't."

He paused, allowing the silence to settle back all around them. And inside Teresa's chest, hope opened its petals like a giant blossom that had always been there, just like that. She just hadn't noticed.

But she did when Patrick whispered to her, his sweet, hot breath hitting her face.

"I could buy a small house."

And suddenly, he smiled his unique, dazzling smile at her. And it lightened the darkness all around them.

**The End**

_Hmmm, I don't know. I wrote that without any participation of my lazy brain, so- how bad is it? No idea. Would you tell me, please? I would be ever so grateful._


End file.
